The Taste of Meringue
by cynicismandrainbows
Summary: A study of Cynthia and Trixie's friendship, and a more satisfying conclusion to S06E06.


When she first meets Trixie, she's damp and breathless after carrying two suitcases all the way from the station in a depressing mid-May drizzle; Trixie is Lily-of-the-Valley perfume in the bedroom they are to share, a jangle of bracelets and a cherry red cupids bow being drawn onto an already perfect face in the mirror over the shared dressing table.

She has never shared a bedroom with another woman before, with a _nyone_ before, aside of course from her and her brothers childhood bedroom at the top of house- _the scuffed blue skirting board, the mark on the carpet where she had trodden on her prized fountain pen at the age of eleven, the place where Michael had pulled back a corner of the wallpaper when he was nine so that they could leave a 'secret message' to the next children to live in the house_ \- but that doesn't bother her too much.

She knew all along that she'd most likely be in shared accommodation and one room-mate is certainly preferable to two or three.

On the train, she had worried a little about being unwelcomely thrust onto someone who would have preferred their own space- but now her fear- sharper- is that this girl- Trixie, she had been told by Sister Julienne who had welcomed her- will merely not want to share with _her,_ that she will find Cynthia dull.

How could she fail to be otherwise, beside this bright, curled and manicured apparition?

But when the girl- Trixie- turns from the mirror, her face is bright and sincere.

'Hello! I'm Beatrix- but people call me Trixie. And you must be Cynthia?'

'Yes.' Then, because she needs something else to say, 'I like your lipstick- I think my Aunt has the same kind.'

It's the right thing to say.

'Isn't it lovely! Cherry red. I needed some courage for my first day.'

She says it so casually- if she genuinely is nervous, she's hiding it well.

Cynthia wonders if she will ever be brave enough, bold enough, to admit her own fear so lightly rather than trying to mask it in anxious smiles and awkward small talk.

Trixie mistakes her silence for disbelief and laughs a little, self consciously.

'It's silly, I know. But I've always thought putting on lipstick feels a bit like putting on your battle armour, myself, and-'

A chiming from the hallway below cuts her off, alerting them both to the fact that it is now one o'clock.

'I believe our presence is required in the dining room for introductions.' She starts to cap the lipstick and then pauses, offering it to Cynthia.

'A little courage? Courtesy of Coco Chanel?'

She shakes her head- she's never even worn lipstick before, she knows she'll make a fool of herself putting it on if she tries now, and she can tell, even with her inexperienced eye, that the shade is far, far too bright for her mousey paleness- and then worries she may have offended...but Trixie smiles as she returns the tube to the dressing table, already strewn with cosmetics.

'I didn't think so-' She has to check Trixie's face to be sure she isn't mocking her '-you look like you can be brave on your own.'

No one has ever called her _brave_ before.

There are meringues to welcome them on the tea table- another first for her, but evidently not for Trixie who is delighted and announces that they are her favourite.

When, four months later- four months of long evenings making frantic notes, of late night cramming sessions, of blood, sweat and tears (not exclusively belonging to the mothers they tend to)- Trixie accidently lets slip that it's her birthday the next day, Cynthia knows her well enough not to press her with questions ( _Why don't you write home? Why are all your letters from friends and never from family?)_ and decides not to mention it to the Sisters.

Well meaning, she knows they would doubtless lay on a birthday tea even at the short notice, that a cake would be found, even candles, maybe even a gift and a card or two... and she knows too that Trixie, for whatever reason, must not want these things.

She doesn't even say anything to Trixie, but she can't quite bear to let a birthday go entirely unmarked.

She buys the meringues with her own money and puts them quietly on the tea table, to the delight of the Sisters and the surprise of Trixie- there's a moment of panic in her eyes that Trixie can see even at the other end of the table, a quick dart of the eyes as she looks anxiously for coloured envelopes and parcels- but Cynthia is calm as she tells Sister Julienne that she just felt they all deserved a treat, and sends Trixie a small reassuring smile.

It means _I won't say anything._ It means _I won't ask until you're ready to tell me._

When she does tell her- two days after Christmas, after a long missive from home and touch too much sherry- she crumples into Cynthia's arms and sobs.

Cynthia absorbs her sadness like a sponge, steady and calm, until Trixie is able to breathe normally again, to talk, to rub cold cream onto her face and reapply her lipstick, smile and hold up her head high and pour herself yet another glass of something, as if everything is fine.

It isn't, but then, Trixie is good at putting on a brave face.

She finds the address of the AA meetings herself, in the heavy yellow pages, leafing through the thin pages until she finds what she's looking for, a map next to her so she can plot the distance from Poplar, estimate how long it will take to arrive.

She writes down the address carefully and slips it into Trixie's hand one day when they're putting their bikes away one afternoon side by side.

There's no one else in the bike shed, no one else even close, but they still speak in whispers.

'What is this?'

'A place you can go to- talk about things. They're meant to help.'

Trixie's already shaking her head. 'No, I don't want- everyone knowing and-'

'It's all anonymous. And it's not near Poplar, I checked. No one will know you.'

Trixie looks about to protest again but then she pauses.

'I thought you'd got it from Dr Turner-'

'No, I-' She hesitates 'I didn't think you'd want to involve him. Or if you do, it should be your choice. I just looked it up myself, I promise I haven't discussed it with anyone.'

'Cynthia- thank you.'

It's choked but sincere.

'I'll come with you, if you like. Any time.'

'Thank you.' Trixie is turning the paper over and over in her hands- her fingers, Cynthia notices, always look somehow more well manicured than those of the other midwives, despite the fact that Trixie works just as hard as the others.

If not harder. Lately, she's thrown herself into work: her eyes are faintly ringed with shadow, almost the same shade as the eye-shadow she once wore in happier times.

'Thank you...but- I think I need to do this myself.'

'Alright.'

It doesn't feel like enough- she turns, then stops.

'You're awfully brave, Trixie.'

Trixie gives a half smile, more a twitch of the lips, more than a little disbelieving.

Two days later, Cynthia sees Trixie leaving the house by herself one evening, looking anxious but resolute, one hand in her pocket gripping something that Cynthia suspects might just be a tube of Cherry Red.

She can't follow Trixie so she goes to the chapel instead, and in the chapel, Cynthia prays for her friend: Trixe left the house wearing high heels but she's going into battle all the same.

She isn't sure if she'll see Trixie again before she leaves.

Come to think of it, she isn't sure if Trixie knows she _is_ leaving.

The thought makes her sad- they'd once tracked each others comings and goings easily, thoughtlessly: glancing up at the on-call board to see whether they'd have time that evening for a game of monopoly, some illicit left over pudding or (occasionally) more illicit and therefore more thrilling games of poker.

Casual enquiries: ' _Is Trixie back yet?'_ , _'Have you seen Cynthia?';_ evenings out at the pictures or even to the dance halls.

Or seeing Trixie off before she left for one of her own private evenings out- perched on the end of her bed, offering opinions about dresses and hairstyles.

 _'The blue or the violet?'_

 _'The violet, I think.'_

She knew, they both knew, that Trixie was the fashion plate, the one with an actual eye for style- but still, Trixie always asked her and always took her suggestions.

 _'Hair up or down?'_

 _'Mmm...down tonight.'_

Conversations with the bit of Trixie's face reflected in the mirror as she would put herself together; glasses of strange, bright concoctions, sometimes decorated with cherries and umbrellas but always with a strong bite of alcohol behind the initial syrupy sweetness, that she would sip at, gradually growing giggly and lazy limbed.

 _'They call it Ouzo. They drink it in Greece.'_

 _'What's that you've mixed in with it?'_

 _'Ginger beer- it's all we've got left.'_

 _'You should submit it to Woman's Own, Trix, you're wasted as a midwife.'_

She knows it was after she left that the drinks stopped altogether- for Trixie anyhow- and tries not to wonder if it was partly BECAUSE she left. Or maybe things had been there to notice before- and she had failed. She isn't sure which is worse but the question is one that buzzes loudest on the darkest days.

She knows the big events that have separated them of course- taking the veil was, she had to admit, the biggest- but it was harder to keep track of the little ones: she finds she can't remember the last time she has looked for the _Trixie_ scrawled in chalk, the last time she has gone to find Trixie specifically with a funny story about her day-

And then a knock, Trixie's knock, on her door, the _rat-tat-at_ , her own personal fanfare.

It takes her a moment to respond. It has been a while since she has been in charge of who entered her room.

'Come in.'

Trixie hovers on the doorway, with a brave attempt at a smile.

'I wasn't sure if you'd left yet. Sister Julienne didn't want you to have to deal with too many goodbyes.'

'She was very understanding- I do want to say goodbye to everyone, I'm just not sure I'm up to it.'

Trixie looks anguished. 'I'm sorry- it's terribly selfish of me, I just felt I had to say something before you went. I-' She pauses 'I still can't believe I wasn't there when- when everything happened.'

'I'm glad you were, it wasn't...pleasant. I just feel sorry for the trouble I caused everyone- for the trouble I still _am_ causing...'

'You're no trouble! None! I just- I wish I could've helped you. After everything you did for me.'

 _They'd had other codes, once upon a time, a long time ago, things that only they understood: she knew that when Trixie described someone as perfectly charming, she really meant they were a little too wet for her taste. Trixie knew that 'a little bother' meant that things had gone utterly and awfully wrong. 'Going over notes' meant retiring to one of their rooms early for a break from study._

 _And now 'everything', meaning AA meetings and Linchmere..._

'It's...alright, Trixie. Really.' It isn't, really, but she has always believed in trying to make things easier for others, even if only with words.

'I know things are...different now but...can I write to you? At Northfield?'

'I'd like that. Tell me- about things. How things are. How you are.'

'I'll save up all my interesting stories for you. Even manufacture some if there's a dull week.' Trixie's eyes are shiny with tears. 'And I'll visit. When you're up to it. If you'd like, that is.'

She opens her mouth to reply, but Trixie cuts her off.

'Don't answer now, I know how things can get and sometimes seeing people and talking about things will be the last thing you want. Just- when and if you do want, I'll come. Any time.'

'They allow visitors at Northfield.'

'Good. I'll bring the meringues. And the monopoly.'

'They won't miss it here- no one plays it since we stopped.'

'They don't know what they're missing out on.'

'Well, they're not old hands like us.'

Trixie suddenly reaches out and grasps Cynthia's hands in her own.

'We've stuck it out here longer than everyone- as far as the nurses anyway. And we'll be here for a good while yet too. This is just- a temporary leave of absence. I catergorically refuse to lose you, Cynthia Miller.'

She stops. ' I'm sorry, I meant-'

'It's alright.' And it is. 'It's still my name.'

Trixie sends her a questioning look, and she smiles a little.

'I've just been... thinking about things.'

'I noticed- no veil?'

'I wanted to go back a bit. To how things were when I last wore this.' She fingers the worn blue cotton.

'I brought you something- not because of the veil of course, I was going to give it to you anyway. Or lend it. You need to bring it back. You need to _come_ back.'

Trixie darts back into her bedroom- _her bedroom, her and Patsy's, not her and Cynthia's for so very long-_ for a moment and returns with a crumpled brown paper bag.

'Here.'

'You didn't have to-'

'It's nothing.'

Trixie leans forward suddenly and wraps her in a tight hug- and she wonders when they'd last stood like this. Not for so long. Too long.

They are older now, scarred in ways that didn't show, and they wear different clothes now- but Trixie's Lily-of-the-Valley-perfume-cigarettes-hairspray smell is still the same.

Eventually they break apart and Trixie steps back.

'I should go- I've got clinic. I just wanted to say goodbye this time.'

As Trixie walks away, she can see she has to brush at her eyes more than once- but even as she blinks hard and bites her own lip, she knows that Trixie will be managing a smile too.

But then, Trixie always has been good at brave faces.

Her room is small; Mrs Barrington- _Barry_ \- had been almost apologetic when showing it to her, but the sunlight warming the carpet is bright, brighter than it had been for so long, and the bed looks comfortable.

 _She hadn't been able to get comfortable at Linchmere- the springs creaked every time she moved and so she'd tried not to, to avoid disturbing the other patients, even when her legs ached from being in one position too long and her bare skin prickled when it touched the unfamiliar sheets. Her sleeplessness had, sometimes, felt like yet another failure: her body refusing to accept even the minor healing that sleep could bring._

As the tension melts from her bit by bit, it occurs to her that a lie down would be most welcome.

But first-

Proper unpacking can wait until later, even her bible stays where she had carefully placed it, under her neatly folded nightclothes...but when she opens her suitcase, Trixie's package is right on top of everything.

When she opens it, a small, slightly battered tube lies in her lap. Cherry Red.

 _'It's silly, I know. But I've always thought putting on lipstick feels a bit like putting on your battle armour myself.'_

She doesn't put it on her dressing table. Instead, she lays it on her bedside table, close to the pillow where she will lay her head each night.

When she closes her eyes, she dreams of cigarette smoke, Lily-of-the-Valley and the taste of meringues.


End file.
